


Spencer Men Don't Get Sick

by myglassesaredirty



Series: Parenting is Hard [4]
Category: Psych
Genre: F/M, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Gen, HAHAHAHA i have no friends, Humor, Influenza, Sickfic, Softness, also gus has a small appearance but he's not a major character, also he definitely loves it when maddy plays with his hair, crackfic? only if it CRACKS you up, fic makes everything better, flu season, henry's a Dramatic Boi and no one can convince me otherwise, i love my boy but this is spencer family, inspired by real life events, namely me getting so sick with the flu that i curled into a ball and tried to weep, no but seriously i have no idea what crackfic means, no one explain it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 20:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myglassesaredirty/pseuds/myglassesaredirty
Summary: It's flu season, and Henry Spencer doesn't get sick.He's totally sick.





	Spencer Men Don't Get Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: "This author came down sick with the flu and left her physics class five minutes early because she physically couldn't handle being in the fluorescent lights for one more second and then drove home with a killer headache and almost crashed the car because I just wanted to go to bed and then I got home and changed into sweats before I curled up on my bed with the biggest blanket I own while groaning and not even looking at my phone because my headache was too bad before I started watching L.A. Law."

“Oh, Henry, stop your griping.” She fluffs the pillow on the couch, turns down the blanket, and turns to her husband. “This was your idea in the first place.”

 

Henry sniffles and wipes his nose with a tissue. “I know, but did I seriously have to call in sick to work? I’m fine, Maddy.”

 

Maddy raises one eyebrow and holds up the thermometer. “Do you want to test that theory? Foot massage when you’re better says that you have a fever higher than 100.5.”

 

Henry scoffs. “I’m fine.”

 

“Then why don’t you take your temperature?”

 

Henry scoffs and pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Because.”

 

Maddy rolls her eyes. “That’s not a good enough reason.”

 

“I’m telling you, Maddy, I’m –”

 

Maddy crosses the living room and presses her palm to her forehead. She frowns. “Bend down.” Ignoring Henry’s sigh, she stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his forehead. “You’re burning up.” She runs her hand through Henry’s hair, causing it to stick up.

 

Henry sighs in relief and leans closer. “The entire reason I asked to move to the couch temporarily was so you would run less risk of getting sick.”

 

Maddy quirks an eyebrow. “So you admit that you’re sick?”

 

Henry groans and steps away from his wife. “Maddy, don’t do that! I just want to get better.”

 

Maddy shakes her head and passes him the thermometer. “Take your temperature, Henry. You won’t do anyone any good if you go back to work.” She gently shoves him, and he grabs her hands to keep from falling back. “Go to sleep. Get some rest. You’ll be back on your feet soon enough. Santa Barbara can survive without their best police officer for a few days.”

 

Henry points at her and glances longingly at the couch, but he refuses to sit down. “You even said it: I’m their best officer. What happens if there’s a major crime while I’m out with the flu? People have it worse, and they still keep going.”

 

Maddy points to the couch and levels him with her harshest glare. “Sit. I’ve heard of too many stories of people dying from overworking themselves while they had the flu because ‘it’s just the flu, sweetheart, I’ll be fine.’” She shakes her head. “You’re not going to be one of those people. Get some rest. I’ll get to making soup.”

 

Henry groans and slowly lowers himself to the couch. “But what about Shawn? One of us has to take care of Shawn. You know he doesn’t stop for anything. He’s always moving, and one of us has to watch him.”

 

Maddy smiles, runs her hand through Henry’s hair again, and shakes her head. “Oh, on the contrary,” she says, “he’s helping me take care of you. While I run to the store to get some groceries for soup, he’ll be here, but other than that, Shawn is completely fine. If he’s being too much effort, just tell him to do his homework.”

 

Henry groans. “Mad, I’ll be  _ fine. _ It’s just the stomach flu.”

 

Maddy scratches Henry’s head, and he practically purrs, leaning further into her touch. “Your hair looks ridiculous.”

 

“‘Course it does, you keep messing with it.”

 

“I like messing with your hair.” Maddy sighs and steps away from Henry, laughing when he whines that she stopped messing with his hair. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Don’t infect anyone else.” She grabs her keys and points to the thermometer. “And if you don’t take your own temperature, Shawn is instructed to take it, and you were the one who taught him how to read people’s lying tells.”

 

Henry groans and lays down on the couch. “I’m not even that  _ sick, _ Mad!”

 

“Oh, really? Then, pray tell, why are you wearing sweats and your academy sweatshirt?”

 

Henry scoffs and rubs his nose. “Can a man not wear sweatpants in his own home?”

 

“You never wear sweats, Henry, unless you’re sick.” Maddy smiles softly, quickly crosses back to Henry, and kisses his forehead. “I love you, sweetheart. Get better.”

 

Henry grunts and squeezes her hand. “I love you, too.” His hand falls, and he closes his eyes when the door closes behind her, expecting peace and quiet.

 

However, it is 2:35 in the afternoon. Mrs. Guster picked both Shawn and Gus up from school, and now, she’s supposed to drop him off. Henry expects that, but he does not expect the commotion at the front door.

 

“Come on, Gus, he needs help! I can help him, but only if you help me!”

 

Henry sits up and looks around. “What is he going to do to me?” he mumbles. He gets up and walks to the front door, but before he opens the door, he glances outside.

 

Gus shakes his head frantically and gestures wildly at the door. “I will not, Shawn! I have avoided the flu this long, and I am not about to get it! Not even for Mr. Spencer! You’re on your own!”

 

Shawn bounces up and down, whining. “Gussss. How do you expect me to help him without your help?”

 

“Ask your mom!”

 

“Her car isn’t here!” There’s some kind of evil glint in Shawn’s eye, and Henry figures now is as good a time as any to open the door and make his presence known.

 

Both boys’ eyes swing to the door as it opens, and, when he sees who’s behind the door, Gus shrieks and tears down the driveway. “Hope you feel better, Mr. Spencer!” he calls over his shoulder, waving his hand wildly in the air.

 

Henry shakes his head fondly and steps aside for Shawn to come in. He’s expecting Shawn to barely register the fact that he’s sick and maybe destroy the rest of the house somehow, all in the name of “helping” his father, but as soon as Shawn steps over the threshold, he pivots and tilts his chin up to look at his dad. “Have you taken your temperature yet?”

 

Henry huffs and stomps back toward the living room, grabbing the blanket he tossed on the kitchen table and wrapping it around his shoulders. “Of course I have, Shawn.”

 

Shawn crosses his arms over his chest, and Henry wants to laugh at the image of Shawn, all of seven years old, with his backpack studded with sharks and arms crossed, glaring at him across the room. “Oh, yeah? What’s your temperature?”

 

Henry tries to force a laugh. “Pft. It’s, um…” he scratches his head and then remembers that his hair is sticking up wildly in the front. He smooths it down. “It’s about a hundred degrees.”

 

Shawn shakes his head, walks over to the living room, and drops his backpack. “You’re lying.”

 

Henry nods. “Good catch. I was just –” a tickle rises in his throat, and a cough tears from his chest. He turns his head into the crook of his elbow and coughs violently. Tears spring into his eyes at the effort, his face flushes an even deeper red than it already is, and his body shakes with the strength of his coughs. He sucks in a small breath of air, and, as he’s blinking back the tears, a small hand shoves a glass of water into his hand.

 

“Here,” Shawn says. He holds a towel in one hand and twists and untwists it, keeping his eyes on his father. “Drink it. I’ll come back and take your temperature in a little bit.” He runs off, and Henry is torn between calling after him to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid and drinking the glass of water because he can feel another coughing fit coming on.

 

Henry shrugs, tips back his head, and chugs the glass. The water, though room temperature, soothes his throat. “Shawn, what are you doing?”

 

Shawn rounds the corner, walking slower than Henry’s ever seen him move. He carries a bowl in both hands, and it’s filled to the brim with water. Henry’s only hope is that it’s cold water.

 

Shawn looks up from the bowl and locks eyes with his father. “Does drinking water affect your temperature?”

 

Henry shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

 

Shawn nods solemnly and jerks his head to the coasters on the coffee table. “If you don’t want water stains, I’m going to need you to arrange four coasters into a square.”

 

Henry rolls his eyes, but he leans forward, grabs four coasters, and arranges them all close together. When he’s got them all set up, he leans back and watches as his son carefully lowers the bowl onto the coasters. “Is that cold water you’ve got in there, Shawn?”

 

Shawn nods again and drops the towel into the bowl. Henry opens his mouth to stop him, but the kitchen towel is already soaked before he can say anything.

 

Henry sighs and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up again. “Shawn,” he finally says, “you’re going to need another bowl to wring out the water in.”

 

Shawn jumps up and runs to the kitchen, coming back with the mixing bowl for the brownies. He sets it down on the coffee table and points to the thermometer. “Take your temperature.”

 

“Shawn, I’m fine, this is just a stomach bug –”

 

“Take your temperature.”

 

“I’m fine!”

 

Shawn plants his feet shoulder-width apart, crosses his arms, and glares at his father (probably, Henry thinks, trying to imitate him in his police stance). “Take. Your. Temperature!”

 

Henry sighs, picks up the thermometer, and sticks it under his tongue. He glances at his watch, makes note of the second he stuck it in, and sits back in the couch and glares at his son.

 

Shawn doesn’t back down.

 

Shawn’s never been one to back down from a fight, in fact. Even if he knows he doesn’t stand a chance in hell of winning, he won’t back down. It’s a good thing when someone’s getting bullied on the playground. It’s a bad thing when Henry is the one Shawn decides to fight.

 

Henry glances at his watch again. Thirty seconds.

 

Shawn takes the kitchen towel from the water and holds it above the mixing bowl. He twists the towel a few times, wringing out the water completely, until all that’s left is a damp towel. He folds it up the same way he remembers his mom and dad folding it whenever he’s sick, and then he turns to his father, who finally takes out the thermometer.

 

“You shouldn’t have used the mixing bowl,” Henry says, looking down at the thermometer. His temperature is higher than he cares to admit, and he leans forward, trying to slip it past Shawn without his noticing.

 

Shawn, however, remembers his training all too well. His eyes catch the movement, and he tilts his head and reads the thermometer. “Your fever is one hundred and two?!”

 

Henry presses his index finger to his lips and looks around frantically, as if Maddy will magically appear and yell at him for insisting that he’s fine. “Yes, Shawn, my fever is that high. It’ll go down in a little while.”

 

Shawn twists his lips. “Lie down.”

 

“Shawn, I’m not –”

 

Shawn squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest. “Lie down. I’m going to put this on your forehead.”

 

Henry sighs and moves onto his back. He can’t see anything, not even the television, but the immediate relief of the cool towel against his head makes up for that. He sighs in relief and moves his left hand to keep the towel in place.

 

Shawn perches on the coffee table. “Now, when that’s no longer cool, tell me, and I’ll get you some more water and make it cold again.”

 

Henry laughs. Shawn isn’t serious normally, but it’s even funnier when he’s pretending to be a doctor. Or his father. “Will do, son.”

 

Shawn chews on his bottom lip, jumps up, and runs upstairs. Within a minute, he comes back down, and he dons one of his father’s white button-down shirts, opened in the middle, and he treats it as a doctor’s white coat.

 

Henry snorts and starts coughing. “You’re no doctor, kid,” he says between coughs. His chest flares up again, and he bends over, forgetting about coughing into his elbow and just focusing on getting the piece of phlegm out of the base of his throat.

 

Shawn tries to shove the glass of water back into his father’s hand, but Henry shakes his head.

 

“No,” he wheezes. “I can’t – makes it worse.” His stomach lurches, and the more he coughs, the worse his nausea gets. He looks around through teary eyes, and he locks onto the mixing bowl. Carefully pushing his son aside, Henry lunges for the mixing bowl, pulls it to his face, and retches into it.

 

Shawn’s face twists into a mixture of amusement and disgust. “Gross!” he says, coming up to his father’s side to watch the vomit fall from his dad’s mouth. The color is a ghastly mixture of green, brown, and yellow, and the vomit is chunky. “That is so gross!”

 

Henry shakes his head and keeps the bowl hovering just below his mouth on the off chance that the nausea doesn’t pass. His stomach flips when the smell reaches his nose, and he pulls the bowl back up to his mouth and throws up again.

 

“Dad, are you dying?”

 

Henry rolls his eyes when he hears the amusement in Shawn’s voice and shakes his head again. “No, Shawn, I’m not dying, I just coughed too hard.” He pulls the bowl away from his mouth. It’s far enough away that the smell won’t reach his nose immediately but close enough that he can puke into it if need be.

 

Shawn peers into the bowl. “That is such a gross color.” He points at the vomit stuck in the bowl. “Can we paint my room that color when you’re better?”

 

Henry’s eyes widen and he glares at his son. “Of course not. Don’t be disgusting.” He sighs in relief and, for lack of a better place to put it, he sets the mixing bowl full of vomit on the coffee table. He glances around, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and locks eyes with Shawn. “Don’t tell your mother,” he says lowly.

 

“Don’t tell me what?”

 

Henry refuses to admit that he screamed. He didn’t scream. Was he shocked? Yes, of course. He’s used to always catching the sound of the garage door opening or even the key turning in the front door. For a moment, he thought Maddy magically appeared in the room. Did he yelp? Yes, that’s the word he would use for it, but he didn’t scream. Henry Spencer doesn’t  _ scream. _

 

If you were to ask Maddy Spencer, however, she would say that her husband screamed, quote, “like a little girl. It was so high-pitched. I didn’t know he had it in him.”

 

Shawn doubles over in laughter, clutching his stomach in both hands, while Henry slowly turns to his wife with wide eyes and a pale face.

 

“Uh…nothing. I- I told Shawn not to tell you something I just taught him.” He clears his throat. “You’re back already?”

 

Maddy nods slowly and carefully walks into the kitchen, carrying the paper sack of groceries to the island. “There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the way to the store, and I only needed a few things.” She drops her keys in the bowl on the kitchen table and steps back into the living room. “I’ll get dinner going soo– OH MY GOD, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO?”

 

Henry grabs the towel that fell from his forehead during his coughing fit, unravels it, and haphazardly tosses it over the mixing bowl. The towel, instead of covering the bowl majestically, drops into the pool of vomit. Maddy screams.

 

If you were to ask Maddy if  _ she _ screamed, she would deny it adamantly. She has screamed many times in her life, and she will never deny that she has screamed in the past, or that she would scream if the situation called for it. However, in this situation, she would say that she gasped loudly. She doesn’t scream at the sight of vomit.

 

Henry, on the other hand, would nod quickly and say, “She definitely screamed. She just took one look at the pile of vomit and the kitchen towel that succumbed to the vomit, and she shrieked. I thought we were going to have to take Shawn to the hospital, he was laughing so hard.”

 

Shawn hits the floor and beats his fist against the ground. His laughter has transformed from his usual childlike giggle to a belly laugh to complete silence, and his face turns from flush to a deep red that borders on the color purple.

 

Henry clears his throat. “Shawn, stop laughing.”

 

Shawn shakes his head, and, if possible, starts laughing harder. Henry hears him wheeze and then there’s more silence, and he checks to make sure his son is still alive and neither his wife nor he killed his son via laughter.

 

He’s fine.

 

Maddy points to the mixing bowl and looks frantically between the bowl and Henry. “I just– what possessed– what in the  _ hell– _ how– HENRY!”

 

Henry has the decency to look ashamed. “In my own defense, I didn’t have time to make it to the bathroom.”

 

“You threw up in the mixing bowl! I’ve used that thing to make  _ brownies!” _

 

Henry nods solemnly. “I know, sweetheart. And your brownies are very good.”

 

She points an accusatory finger at his chest.  _ “Why _ did you use the mixing bowl in the first place? If you had time to get to the kitchen, you had time to grab a bag, or, hell, I don’t know,  _ make it to the bathroom!” _

 

Henry holds up a finger. “True. Very true. But,” he points to her, “the mixing bowl was already in here.”

 

“And why did you use the  _ kitchen towel _ as a washcloth? You could have just told Shawn to get a washcloth anyways!” Maddy stares in horror at the gross color that currently stains the bowl. “Henry, look at it!”

 

Henry shakes his head frantically. “Absolutely not. If I do, I’m going to have to throw up in there again.”

 

“Oh, Mr. I’m-Not-That-Sick-I-Can-Go-To-Work, do you  _ think _ you can sneak by me like that?” She crosses her arms. “Shawn, stop laughing,” she says, barely glancing at her son, who rolls over onto his back and kicks his legs into the air. To Henry, she says, “Why don’t you look at the damage you’ve just done?”

 

Henry keeps shaking his head. “I would really rather not, Mad. I’m good. It already came out of me twice, I’m not –”

 

“TWICE?! You threw up  _ twice?!” _ Maddy gestures to her precious mixing bowl. “You threw up in that mixing bowl – the one I use to make your brownies and Shawn’s cake –  _ twice?!” _

 

Henry grins sheepishly and tries to disappear into his shoulders. “Yes?”

 

“You said you weren’t that sick!”

 

“I’m not!”

 

Maddy’s eyes flash and she punctuates her point by pointing emphatically to the mixing bowl with each word. “I would  _ beg _ to  _ differ, _ Henry!”

 

“It was a coughing fit!”

 

“You clearly had plenty of nausea if you had enough vomit to do damage like that!”

 

Henry licks his lips. “I’m sorry?” he tries.

 

“Henry! What in the hell possessed you to throw up  _ there _ when I put a trash bag  _ by the couch _ that was to be used  _ specifically _ for this purpose?”

 

Henry furrows his brow and glances at the plastic bag wedged between the armrest and the first couch cushion. “Huh. How ‘bout that?”

 

Maddy presses her hands into her eyes. “Oh my God, I am not dealing with this, I am not dealing with this, I am  _ not _ – Shawn, just go to your room!”

 

Shawn, with great effort, stands and hikes up the stairs, leaning all of his weight against the wall.

 

Henry follows Shawn with his eyes. “We’ve probably killed him. I didn’t know it was possible to die by laughter.”

 

“Henry, that’s not the point!” She stares in disgust at the mixing bowl. “I– you’re lucky you already signed on to sleep on the couch, because if you hadn’t, I would’ve kicked you out here myself.”

 

Henry pouts. “Just because I used my brain and threw up in a bowl?”

 

Maddy shakes her head, gingerly grabs the mixing bowl, and holds it as far out in front of her as possible. “No! Because you threw up and I don’t feel like my husband throwing up on me!” She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “If it wasn’t pollution, I would burn this thing. As it is, I’m throwing it in the dumpster for the poor garbageman to pick up and haul away.”

 

Henry shakes his head and leans against the couch. “I’m sorry!” he calls.

 

“Sorry isn’t good enough right now, Henry!” She comes back in a couple moments later and makes a beeline to the kitchen. Maddy turns the faucet on full force, scrubs her hands with soap, and runs them under the water before she repeats the process. Henry watches her the entire time.

 

After she scrubs her hands for the fourth time, Henry sighs heavily and scratches his forehead. “I think any possible vomit residue has since left your hands, hon.”

 

Maddy shakes out the water and looks around the kitchen. “Get Shawn down here.”

 

Henry lifts his eyebrow. “Why? What can he do that I can’t?”

 

Maddy shakes out the remaining water and keeps her hands hovering over the sink. “He’s not sick, that’s what.” She sighs. “Shawn! I need your help!”

 

When he doesn’t respond immediately, Henry furrows his brow. “Shawn!” he calls, ignoring the way his chest constricts. He’s not going into another damn coughing fit. “Get down here!”

 

Shawn appears at the top of the stairs and slowly walks down. “Am I in trouble?”

 

Henry jerks his head toward the kitchen. “Go help your mother.”

 

Shawn hurries over to the kitchen and jumps up onto the counter. “What is it, Mom?” His eyes zero in on the way his mom’s hands hover over the sink. “Why aren’t you moving?”

 

Maddy rolls her eyes. “Get off the counter. You’re not allowed to sit up here.”

 

Shawn groans and slides down. “But Dad does!”

 

Maddy shakes her head. “Dad  _ rarely _ does, and I have only seen him do it  _ once _ since you were born, and that was when your uncle Jack came to the house.” She sighs and shakes her hands for the third time. “Can you get me a clean towel, Goose?”

 

Shawn pulls out the drawer next to the stove, grabs the first towel that he sees, and shakes it out. “Is this one fine?”

 

“Depends,” Maddy says. “Did you use it to take care of your father?”

 

Shawn groans and shuffles to his mother’s side, passing her the towel. “How was I supposed to know?”

 

“Shawn, when have your father or I ever used a kitchen towel to bring down your fever?” She wipes her hands. “Speaking of fever, how high was your father’s?”

 

Henry shakes his head. “It was just under 100.5!”

 

“I call bull!” Maddy hangs the kitchen towel up on the circular hanger and then turns to Shawn, tilting his chin up so he can look at her. “How high was Dad’s fever?”

 

Shawn glances around furtively and takes a step closer to his mother. “102.3. He said it would go down soon.”

 

“Henry!”

 

“What?!”

 

She storms back into the living room and places her hands on her hips. “Were you not planning on telling me how high your fever was?”

 

Henry splutters and gestures to where the mixing bowl had, up until a few minutes ago, sat innocently with just a little bit of vomit in it. “Well, there were more pressing matters…”

 

“You literally just told me that your fever was less than 101!”

 

Henry presses his lips together. “I was trying not to worry you?”

 

Maddy groans and stomps back to the kitchen. “You’re supposed to  _ tell _ me how high your fever is!”

 

“I love you!” he calls. Henry lifts an eyebrow when he sees Shawn standing between the kitchen and the living room. “Have you done your homework yet?”

 

Shawn points to his backpack. “We didn’t have any. Besides, tomorrow’s the weekend.”

 

“Shawn, do your homework.”

 

Shawn whines and trudges to his backpack. “But why can’t I do it  _ Sunday?” _

 

“You could get it out of the way right now and then not have to worry about it all weekend.” Henry nods to the sitting chair. “But you can do your work in here, since your mother banished me from going upstairs.”

 

“You chose that!” She pokes her head back into the living room. “Besides, if you threw up, I am not exactly all too willing to share a bed with you until you’re better.”

 

“Shawn’s still allowed upstairs.”

 

“Because he’s a kid!” Maddy disappears back into the kitchen.

 

Henry grins mischievously. “So, Shawn…how was your day?”

 

Before Shawn can answer, Maddy wrestles a pot from the cabinets. “And you owe me a foot massage!”

 

**

 

His father didn’t check on him early this morning.

 

Shawn can tell when his father hasn’t come in. It used to be that he just knew, like someone knows that someone is a bad person, but then he set up his rug so that the movement of his door would disturb it in the morning, and he has his proof.

 

The rug isn’t disturbed. His father didn’t check on him last night.

 

Naturally, Shawn knows that it’s because his father is really sick, but still. He can’t help but feel a little sad that his dad didn’t make the effort.

 

He slips downstairs to go talk to his father, but his mother shoos him out of the living room. “He doesn’t feel very good, Goose,” she says. “Let him get his rest.”

 

Shawn goes up to his room and tries to play with his toys for a little while, but he would rather be outside. So, naturally, he gets up and goes to head outside the door, but his mother redirects him again. “Name one quiet thing you do outside,” she says, smoothing down his hair and ushering him back upstairs. “Your father didn’t get any sleep last night because he was so sick. Let him be.”

 

When he keeps making periodic trips downstairs, his mom rolls her eyes and calls Mrs. Guster, asking if Shawn can come over to play. Shawn stands next to his mother and peers into the living room, where his father sleeps. He can hear Gus shouting on the other end about how he doesn’t want that much exposure to the flu. Mrs. Guster promises to call back, Maddy checks her watch, and then she whistles lowly.

 

Maddy creeps back into the living room and puts her palm on Henry’s forehead. He sighs and turns his bleary eyes to look at her. “Yeah, hon?”

 

Maddy smiles softly and smooths his hair back. “I have to go get your medicine. I’ll be back soon. Shawn’s supposed to be upstairs.” She kisses his forehead. “I love you.”

 

Henry closes his eyes. “Love you, too, hon.”

 

Shawn starts to dash upstairs as his mom walks into the kitchen, but she catches him by the shirt and pulls him back to face her. “Yes, ma’am?” he asks her, tilting his chin up and staring at her innocently.

 

She sighs. “Don’t bug your father, okay? He’s really tired, and he’s trying to take a nap.” She glances at her watch again. “I should be back in about half an hour, okay? Be good.”

 

Shawn waves at her, and she leaves. He waits until he hears the car reverse down the driveway, and then he pokes his head into the living room.

 

His father lies on his right side, his left hand dangling from the couch, and he looks to be sleeping peacefully. Truthfully, this is the quietest Shawn’s ever seen him.

 

Shawn licks his lips and creeps into the living room. The television is turned down low, but it’s loud enough to provide some white noise. He glances around the room, lifts his father’s left arm, and snuggles underneath. He buries his face into his father’s chest.

 

Henry opens his eyes. “I’ll get you sick,” he murmurs, wrapping his free arm around his son.

 

Shawn shrugs and rubs his nose. “I don’t mind.”

 

Henry hums. “Of course you don’t.”

 

Shawn turns his head so that his cheek presses against his father’s chest. “You didn’t come to my room this morning. You always come to my room.”

 

“Shawn, I could barely get up this morning to use the bathroom.” He pushes the hair out of Shawn’s eyes. “Does it worry you when I don’t check up on you?”

 

Shawn nods. “The last time you didn’t, you were in the hospital.” He shrugs again. “I don’t know, I just don’t know what’s happened to you when you don’t.”

 

Henry smiles softly. “Shawn, I had just stepped in a gopher hole when I was in the hospital that time. It wasn’t even while I was working a case, I was just out for a run. There’s nothing to worry about.”

 

Shawn shakes his head. “You’re wrong.” He pinches his nose and scoots closer to his father. “People shoot at you. You almost died the year I was born. Mom cries when you come home real late because she doesn’t know if you’re okay. Neither of us do. But I know if you check my room, then you’re still okay.”

 

Henry’s heart breaks and he kisses the top of Shawn’s head. “I’m just fine, Shawn. I may have the flu, and I may feel like crap, but it’s nothing that won’t resolve itself in a few days. Especially if I get some medicine through my system.”

 

Shawn nods. “I just don’t want you to go,” he looks up at the ceiling, “up there just yet. Or ever. Dad, you need to live forever.”

 

Henry purses his lips. “Forever doesn’t exist, Shawn.”

 

“I know. But you can’t die yet.”

 

“I’m not going to die.” Henry smooths Shawn’s hair back. “You’ve had the flu before; you get better.”

 

Shawn twists his lips. “But it’s not always just the flu, Dad.”

 

Henry sighs and tilts his head to catch his son’s eye. “I promise, son,” he says seriously, “I’ll always come home at night. I will always, always come home.”

 

**

 

The garage door swings shut behind her, and the house is suspiciously quiet. Maddy narrows her eyes. “Hello?” she calls. “Shawn? Are you upstairs?” When she gets no answer, she sighs and heads to the kitchen with her singular grocery bag, but the sight in the living room forces her to stop dead in her tracks.

 

Shawn, despite her request, crawled up onto the couch and curled up next to his father. Henry’s left arm is draped protectively around Shawn, as if just by his presence, he can ward off any evil that tries to come near. Shawn’s face is buried into Henry’s massive Academy sweatshirt.

 

Maddy wants to cry. She fishes into her bag, grabs the disposable camera that she hardly thought to buy, and takes a picture.

 

In five minutes, they’ll wake up, and Shawn will zoom around the house while Henry tries to get some much-needed rest, but right now, it looks awfully reminiscent of all the times Shawn came to their room late at night, terrified from one nightmare or the other, and Henry would make room for him and protect him from the dreams themselves.

 

Maddy smiles to herself, carefully places the camera on the mantle, and creeps into the kitchen. She glances over her shoulder and wipes a stray tear from her eye. “I love you both so, so much,” she whispers to the living room. “More than either of you could ever know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Young Henry Spencer in sweatpants is an image all of us need.
> 
> Like it, love it, hate it? Leave a comment below or go to my tumblr, @ my-glasses-are-dirty, and tell me what you think!


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